


and lo there do i see

by nefelokokkygia



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefelokokkygia/pseuds/nefelokokkygia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lo they do call to me; they bid me take my place among them in the halls of valhalla, where the brave may live forever. sif hunts alongside loki on the first night of yule, and brings him peace. post-avengers, far into the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illustration done by myself

The sun sets shimmering and blazing beneath the horizon, circling beneath the Realm Eternal as Yggdrasill glitters above it. The Branches glow in the cosmos, buried deep within the inky darkness, illuminating the night sky for those who keep her hours. Blues and purples and golds splash across the wide expanse, as if brushed by a painter's hand. The World Tree's stars flicker further than far-eyed Heimdallr's Sight can see, thrown upon the canvas of space to sparkle where they lie.

Sif Týsdóttir fastens the silver clasp of her cloak at her neck, the rich, velvet fabric cascading warm and soft over her shoulders. It is a dark, forest green, edges embroidered with silver, heavy for the winter and the Yule-months ahead.

(It is green for other reasons, but she leaves them lost to no one but herself, and one other.)

Her armor is warm against her skin, even through dark layers of leather and wool and the soft fur covering her neck. The flames in the hearth behind her crackle steadily, blazing fir logs spinning the scents of forest and sap around her head. The fire will soon burn out, but Sif does not rekindle it; if the night goes well (and it has no reason not to), she will have no further need of its warmth.

Tucking one of her knives into its sheath at the small of her back, the warrior meditates on the night's forthcomings. It is the beginning of Yule, where all of Ásgarðr settles amongst the snows and rejoices at the end of the old year, celebrating and welcoming the new. The feasts are great (Sif scoffs; as if Ásgarðr doesn't feast enough for the rest of the year as well), and the streets are decorated with wreaths and flowers and candles to glimmer along with the season. The men dress in their finest cloaks and trappings and the women wrap themselves in decorated gowns and furs, and bonfires burn towards _móðir_ Yggdrasill; the voices of peasant and noble alike reach to her along with the flames, in thanks to those who have gone before and those who will come, as the years turn into one another and the cycle continues eternally.

Sif slips her last dagger into her boot, sheath hidden in an outer layer of leather and metal. She tightens the ribbon in her hair that holds half of it up, letting the rest dip and brush against her face, over the fur and velvet of her cloak.

She leaves the fading fire to the empty room, boots silent on the floor as she walks.

 

Sif's fingers fold instinctually, out of habit, wanting to feel the smooth metal of her glaive beneath their gloved callouses. But the Hunt does not call for spears or swords, glimmering metal left behind for a more natural, traditional approach.

The warrior's fingers grip the polished wood of her bow instead, pulling it over her head to rest against her chest. It is not often she uses it, preferring the ring of steel and the feel of metal warmed by her skin, but it molds to her hands as practiced as any of her weapons. The quiver on her back is light over her cloak, but made of worn, worthy leather; it holds many arrows, and the feathers at their ends tickle against her head, ghosting over her ear.

Sif turns her attention to her mount, a richly-colored stallion with hair like the darkest of chocolates, brushing his coat until it shines. The stables are quiet, many Hunters wishing to go out on foot, within the plains and mountains and valleys of Ásgarðr's lands. But Sif will not be amongst them; she will be traveling much further for her offering, though not alone.

Crowned in golden horns and clothed in the finest fabrics and leathers, Loki Laufeyson grooms his mare on the opposite end of the room, her coat as black as the cosmos that surround the Realm Eternal but for the patch of white on her nose. The prince clicks softly to her as he works the curry-comb into her coat, and when she nuzzles his helmeted cheek he laughs, rubbing her nose in return.

It is not often Sif sees Loki so, the mask of calm and collected severity born of hundreds of years of practice lowered for a time. It has been long since his conquering days on Miðgarðr, ruled by a thirst for vengeance and fueled by the need to be seen. He had been wrong, so very wrong, fighting for reasons his brother had done only months before. They were alike in their mistakes and in the ways they had fixed them, moreso than Loki cared to agree with, even as he acknowledged such. He had been used, his anger and rage turned into a pawn by the being Thanos in his quest to conquer, and Loki had turned his trickster's wit upon the alien as he came for Ásgarðr. It did not excuse the prince's acts against Miðgarðr, but it had shown him what he had known all along and, out of foolishly stubborn pride, refused to believe: that Ásgarðr was his home if only he would let it be, and he would be welcomed by her if only he allowed himself to see it.

It hadn't been easy, and it still isn't easy. Not many of the Realm Eternal's people look upon him with any favor, and many still openly breed their scorn; but he is trying, they all are, and it is enough.

The prince hasn't noticed the warrior yet, his back to her, and Sif's lips thin into a smile as she works, pressing a kiss to her stallion's nose when he nickers in her ear, pressing against her cheek. She watches Loki as he works, how he shows nothing but kindness to the mare; there are very few people in all of the Nine Realms he will show such unguarded attention to, but Svaðilfari had been companion to him long before his jealousy had taken hold, and it does not surprise her. Sif knows that an animal does not judge its caretakers, wants only for its own health and happiness and returns such to the ones who provide it. When Loki cannot find peace in others and he knows himself tempered, he finds calm in the mare's unconditional acceptance.

Sif exchanges her own curry-comb for a thicker one and notices that Loki does the same, the hard bristles flushing out the dead skin and hair from her stallion's coat before moving to the body brush, smoothing his coat to shine. Lóriði stands stock-still, tail swishing lazily, and his eyes flicker to his tack, prepared by the royal keepers on the walls behind the warrior. Sif does not dare think of what trappings have been added in the spirit of the Yule-season, and were it not the first night, the Hunt, she would forego it all in favor of the well-worn leathers and cloths Lóriði has always worn.

But tonight is a time for painted revelry and grandioseness, and since such only happens a few times throughout the year, Sif does not mind. Working carefully around her stallion's face with a smaller brush, she glances over at Loki who is already smoothing Svaðilfari's coat with a cloth, the mare's hair liquid in the firelight of the stable. The warrior does the same to Lóriði before carefully smoothing through the tangles of his mane and tail, wondering if Loki is so engrossed in his similar care that he will never notice her at all.

She is proven wrong when he turns to Svaðilfari's tack and catches the warrior's eye, breastcollar and cloth for the mare's back draped in his hands.

"I was wondering when you would notice I was here," Sif says, smoothing the gold and silver blanket over Lóriði's back, its ends stitched with intricate patterns in inky black. She watches the prince fasten the leather and buckles of Svaðilfari's saddle and does the same to her stallion's, scoffing at how the rich fabrics for Yule drape and flow over his sides.

"There isn't much that escapes my notice," the horned god replies, voice low like it is trapped in his throat and eyes not meeting Sif's as he works, setting the decorative trappings of his mare's tack neatly around her. The warrior watches as she nickers, nudging Loki's shoulder as he arranges her reins, and he clicks approvingly as he works. Once finished, he gathers his bow from the bench at the wall, its gold-etched wood black and liquid in his hand. The feathers that tip his arrows are like his horns and armor, brilliant against the black leathers and forest-colored cloak, and they brush against his ear like her own.

"Am I an exception then?" Sif asks, Lóriði's bridle and tack secured. The prince's eyes are dark and deep beneath the golden horns as he leads his mare towards the exit, towards her. His mouth is set in a line, not angry but not quite content. It is unreadable, undefined; it is something the warrior has seen often over the centuries, and she is still none the wiser for deciphering it.

" _Nei_ , Sif," and her name drips from his teeth, liquid, reverent. "You are _the_ exception." The cold metal of his helm brushes her forehead, he is so close; he does not kiss her, and her free hand holds his jaw, lined in gold.

 

It is Loki's first Hunt since his hesitant return to Ásgarðr, and though he is not one to show fear, Sif suspects there is more than blood humming through his veins as they reach the outer pavillions of Iðavǫllr. Countless Hunters are scattered throughout, talking of their skills and prowess, and of what they hope to bring to the feasting tables. Some are seated on horses, those who intend to hunt in the mountainous regions further out, but most are on foot, wishing to go after their offerings in the forests surrounding the palaces. Sif searches for Thórr and the Warriors Three as they lead their horses amidst the crowds, scanning the figures on mounts; the four plan to travel far into the mountains, and the warrior wonders which of their teams will return first when both are hunting so far from home. 

Loki is silent beside her as she searches, staying close. He does not meet the eyes of any they pass, though Sif does for him, silencing with her gaze the scorning whispers that pass her ears. Many of them are men she has fought in the training fields, men who scoffed and whispered behind her own back because she was a woman, preferring to take the helm and oath of a warrior instead of the bejeweled hand of a court suitor. Sif did not let their words pierce her like weapons, did not let their scorn weigh upon her shoulders instead of leather and armor, and she will not let them do the same to Loki.

She finally catches sight of Thórr's vibrant red cape at the edges of the pavillion, all four warriors astride their mounts. Frigg stands amongst them as they talk animatedly, and as she and Loki reach the queen she turns, eyes bright as they fall upon her second son. Sif watches as she greets him with an embrace, not missing the way he relaxes ever-so in her hold as she kisses his cheek. She was the first to welcome the wayward prince into her arms after his return, not without her own disciplines, but not without kindness either; the warrior knows the queen will always be the first to show him affection and support when he needs.

"Greetings and blessèd be, Warrior Sif," Frigg says, rubbing the nose of Loki's horse and Sif's own when the equines nicker softly.

"Blessèd be you as well, my queen," the warrior responds, and does not miss the glimmer in Frigg's eyes when she says _my queen_.

"How many times have I told you," and her gaze sweeps over the faces of the Warriors Three as well, "to simply call me Frigg when we are not in the stuffy confines of formailities?" the woman teases, and all of them laugh at her raised brow and playful tone.

"My queen, I am afraid the task will continue to fall upon you until she reaches the gates of Valhöll," Fandral quips, giving Sif a sly smirk.

"Then I look forward to repeating myself for millennia to come," Frigg says, and Sif cannot hide the grin that spreads across her face.

" _Bróðir_ , Warrior Sif!" Thórr's exclamation sounds over the increasing din of Hunters beginning to leave for their journeys. "You bring horses; do you intend to conquer the mountains as well this night?" 

"Not those of Ásgarðr," Sif answers, lifting herself up and onto Lóriði's saddle, feet firm in the stirrups and cloak warm around her shoulders. Loki follows suit, sitting tall upon Svaðilfari, and she does not miss the calm in his eyes when the golden-haired prince calls him _bróðir_.

"We seek our offerings in the snows and forests of Miðgarðr," the warrior finishes, and she takes delight in the laughs of her friends.

"Miðgarðr?" Volstagg exclaims, "I can't think of the last time we ran a Hunt on Miðgarðr's lands. Can you, Hogun?" the voluminous warrior turns to their often-silent companion.

"I can," he answers, words clean and cut while Fandral and Thórr try to suppress snickers. Volstagg gives a huff, turning narrowed eyes upon them before facing Sif again and continuing.

"And who's wonderful idea was this?"

"Mine."

Loki's eyes meet the bearded warrior's briefly before turning down to Svaðilfari's reins, silent as stone once more.

"A clever idea from an equally clever man," Thórr says, guiding his mount to stand beside his brother's, and Sif finds peace in the way the corner of the second prince's mouth turns upwards, flickering and then gone, but it was there nonetheless.

"Though I doubt you will find much that those great horns upon your head do not scare away," he teases, "if Sif does not mistake you for a ram and shoot you first."

It is a testament to how far the both of them have come that Loki only scoffs, throwing jabs at Thórr's winged helmet and asking their mother if she wasn't mistaken in letting the baby bird leave the nest. Sif buries her face in her hands, laughing and thankful for all that has gone between them and all that has brought them back to where they began, as brothers in arms and bonds stronger than before.

"That's enough from both of you," Frigg interrupts, voice light-hearted but firm. "Tonight is a night for revelry and celebration, and I won't have you all missing it because my sons insist on posturing themselves in public." Neither brother meets her eyes, and she tilts her head towards them, brow raised.

" _Já_ , _móðir_ ," they both respond sheepishly, and Frigg turns to leave with a smile.

"Off you go then," she says. "I must return to the Lady Jane; I fear leaving her alone too long at the feasts with Hlín and Gná, nevermind your father, may overwhelm her more than the whole of Ásgarðr."

Thórr grins wide at the mention of his mortal lover, and Sif remembers Jane's first visit to Ásgarðr; it was after the discovery, by Loki's admissions no less, that the Tesseract was a doorway, born of Yggdrasill's own roots and could be used to walk them like the Bifröst of old. She had helped Heimdallr refine the portals, build stronger the Bridges between Ásgarðr and her eight neighboring worlds once more.

Óðinn had been ever grateful for her efforts and her assistance, and she had been welcomed by the realm for her cause, but she is still a mortal woman, and Thórr is to some day become king. Sif does not know what the _Alföðr_ has in mind for his eldest son and the mortal who rebuilt the Bridge, but now is the Hunt, and no place for such uneasy thoughts.

With a yell, Thórr guides his stallion in the direction of the roads that lead down to the palace gardens, to the paths that will take he and the Warriors Three up into the mountains.

"Strike swift!" they call back to Sif and the second prince, who return the wish of good fortune.

"That bow isn't Mjöllnir, Thórr!" the warrior shouts after them. "Don't break it before you can shoot the first arrow!" She only receives a particularly vulgar hand gesture thrown up in return, and yelps for her horse to gallop along the path to the Bifröst, Loki following alongside her.

 

The journey to Heimdallr's new observatory is quick, and Sif slows her stallion as they approach the golden dome, Loki's mare even with his pace. It looks much like the one she remembers from her earliest years, but as they move inside, the golden walls patterned with constellations fade to the inky black of space. The walls glitter and gleam with stars and the images of the eight realms of Yggdrasill in their branches, and the almost-silent hum of electricity hovers around their ears like fireflies.

The Tesseract glimmers in the room's center, held in place inside a clear column that reaches from floor to ceiling. Heimdallr stands before it, her half-brother's all-seeing eyes trained on the deepest reaches of the glittering cosmos around them. Loki is tense beside Sif, and she knows he remembers his actions against the gatekeeper, so long ago but for him, still fresh.

"You wish to seek your offerings in the mountains of Miðgarðr," her half-brother says, voice not questioning, but simply stating. His eyes do not move from where they lie, but he needs not do so to see them, they know.

" _Já_ ," she responds, and beside her, Loki says nothing. "We ask permission to travel the Branches to Miðgarðr." The request is only a formality; both Sif and Loki know Heimdallr has looked upon them and their desires, and has seen the approval of Frigg and Óðinn himself.

"Granted," the gatekeeper responds, his deep voice echoing throughout the chamber where it had not done before. The sword he has carried before Loki and Sif's own births shines in the Tesseract's light as it pulses, the images of the eight neighboring realms moving, realigning until Miðgarðr shines directly before Heimdallr's gaze. 

Her half-brother slips the sword into the Tesseract's pedestal like he has done countless times before, and the cube glitters and burns with energy that twists and contorts around it. At its peak the concentrated mist of blue and white shoots towards the image of Miðgarðr, conglomerating into a swirling opening, a portal to the realm stable and crackling with the Tesseract's power. Inside it Sif can see snowy mountains and auroras in the sky like bursting nebulae, darkened forests beneath twinkling stars.

The warrior turns her head towards Loki, whose jaw is set strong beneath the gold of his helm. He does not fear the Tesseract; in the hands of Ásgarðr and with Heimdallr as its keeper, it brings no influence and no harm upon anyone. But he remembers the gleam of blue eyes and empty hearts, remembers the alien Thanos at his back who is now gone, and she watches the dip of his throat as he swallows, clicking his horse forward. Sif leads her mount beside his, and when they walk through the glittering portal to the lands beyond it, she takes his hand, the horned god's fingers digging into her gloves, reaching for her skin.

 

When traveling by the old Bifröst, Sif always remembered to loosen her muscles, tuck herself inward and let the Branches lead until her feet touched down steady where she landed. Now she remembers to set her shoulders firmly and confidently, letting the warmth of the Tesseract's energy fill her and fuel her, guiding her stallion strong into the snows. The warrior can feel the traces of the portal's energy burning off of her leathers, evaporating like water in _miðsumarr_ , fiery and fresh in her lungs.

The harsh chill of Miðgarðr's air could rival that of Jötunheimr, and it settles around them both like fog, faint flurries of snow falling quiet and calm in the star-lit sky that glows faint with a sun that never fully rises. Heimdallr has sent them into some of the realm's highest mountains in its most northern lands, great fir trees reaching far above the Hunters. Sif knows it to be the land called the _Kongeriket Norge_ , the place where the _Alföðr_ waged the Great War with Laufey, and where she, the Warriors Three, and the brothers have come together in Hunts long past, far from the prying, frightened eyes of the mortals.

"It is as beautiful as I always remember it," she says, voice soft, not daring to disturb the peaceful atmosphere around them.

"Some things never change," the second prince counters, but without any bite, and to himself more than Sif. The warrior presses her nails into his gloved palm that had never left hers, biting into the fur lining of her own, and looks him in the eye.

"And some do," she returns, voice firm, and the starlight in his eyes brings her peace. Softer, "Like your skills with a bow and arrow, I hope."

"One thing that will never change," Loki whispers, leaning over his mare, his breath warm on her ear and sending a shiver not from the snows down her spine, "is that arrows will always strike swifter in my hands than Thórr could ever dream of." Sif can hear the smirk in his throat and the way his voice molds over the words, and she smiles herself.

"You will never be wrong in that regard, Loki," and when his name falls from her teeth she feels his hand tighten around her own, before returning to his mare's reins again. His mouth sets into a thin line once more, but there is a calm in it that reaches his eyes, darkened with the twilight and the thrill of the Hunt. It is a look Sif has not seen upon the prince in far too long, and she is eager for it.

"If we stand here like statues we will never find our offerings," Loki says, breaking the silence, eyes scanning the snowy cliffs in the blue darkness. His legs gently nudge Svaðilfari to move, steps even and slow across the white landscape, towards the forests.

"And what do you seek to bring to the tables for feasting?" Sif questions softly, curious, legs guiding Lóriði beside the prince's mare.

"That is for you to know," Loki responds, bow held tight in his hand against Svaðilfari's reins, "once I find it."

 

The forest intrigues Sif as she and the prince continue, sharp eyes searching the snowy ground and thick growth for potential prey. It is different, without the touch of magic and presence of the woodland spirits familiar to her, yet so similar to Ásgarðr's own.

The warrior has seen a number of game animals roaming the undergrowth like herself and Loki, but they are not the ones she seeks for her offering. She is intrigued when the prince pays them no mind as well, and she wonders what he wishes to find, though she dares not ask in fear of disturbing the silence and frightening anything away.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement catches Sif's eye, and she tugs her stallion's reins in the signal to stop. There it is, the prey she seeks. Loki looks over to her, pausing his mare, following her eyes and the movement of her hands, one pulling the bow from around her shoulder and the other reaching for an arrow. The fat, white hare is almost invisible in the polar night but for its ears, sticking out in stark contrast to the grey rocks around it. Its head sits high, back to her, catching the scents in the air, and Sif is glad for the wind at her face.

The warrior slips silently from Lóriði, dark cloak like ink against the snow as she moves unheard behind a great tree trunk, then another. Loki watches her move closer, then kneel at the base of one, behind a thicket of bushes dusted with snow; she draws the bow tight, button to her lips and arrow poised at the rest. Sif does not shoot immediately, waiting patiently and licking her lips to feel the wind dry them once more, watching as the hare bends to chew at the uncovered grasses.

When it lifts its head again, she lets the arrow go. A flock of birds fly up in the commotion, frightened of the projectile, but the nock stands tall before the rocks.

She did not miss.

The warrior runs to her kill, pulling the bow over her shoulder again and pulling out the knife sheathed at her back. She hears Loki click in signal, leading his mount and her own towards her. Bending down over the hare, she finds that her arrow struck true, straight through the shoulder and into its heart; an instantaneous death. Sif presses her lips to the animal's forehead, whispering her thanks for its spirit that returns to the Allthing, to _móðir_ Yggdrasill, and for its body that will nourish and become part of the _Æsir_. She replaces the knife, pulling the arrow from the animal's body and wiping it down in the snow, removing the blood so she can return it to her quiver.

Loki slides from Svaðilfari, kneeling beside Sif with a sackcloth for her offering. The warrior slips the hare inside, its body protected for rot in the deep cold, securing it shut and tying it back on her stallion's saddle. Mounting Lóriði once more, she eyes Loki with a confident smile at having the first kill, both Hunters venturing deeper into the forest.

"Do you care yet to tell me what animal you seek, Loki?" she asks, his name smooth on her tongue.

"You will see soon enough."

 

They ride for what seem like miles, galloping over flat plains and maneuvering through craggy outcrops of rock, down hills and along the sides of mountains. The forests still surround them, far out on both sides, descending deeper into the valleys beyond. While traveling through a particularly dense region of fir trees, the scents of sap and pinecones vibrant in Sif's lungs, Loki stops.

Spread out before them are tracks belonging to something large, and from the looks of it, many somethings. The hoofprints look familiar, mostly filled by the returning snowfall, and Sif's brow creases in curiosity as the prince guides his mare to circle a patch of the tracks, the first in a line of many that go deep into the woods.

"Loki, do you seek to hunt what I think you do?" the warrior questions, but her inquiry goes unanswered by words, only the breathy laugh of the horned god reaching her ears as his gaze follows the path of the hoofprints. There is a glimmer in his eyes as they rise to meet her own, the likes of which she has not seen in ages; this is Loki undone and free, unrivaled, the Loki she has longed to see.

" _Fylg mik_ ," he calls, breathless, clicking and yelping to Svaðilfari as she gallops through the trees, following the tracks as Sif does, far into the night.

The tracks lead them deep into the thick trees, dusted with fat flakes of new-fallen snow, and over rocky outcrops from whence they can see the zigzagging ridges of mountains. Loki's pace slows the further they ride, until they come to a stop before the entrance to another patch of woodlands.

"We are not far behind," the prince says, voice low as his eyes scan the hoofprints, clicking Svaldifari forward into the trees. When he had first found their beginning, the snows had filled them almost entirely; the further along they followed, the clearer the tracks became.

"These prints are fresh," Sif confirms. "They have not been here long enough for the snows to fill them and cover them again." The warrior follows alongside the prince, both leaning forward on their mounts, eyes searching the forest for the flicker of movement. The thickets quickly come to an end, branching off into a horseshoe shape, leaving a clearing before them. It is then that Sif's vision confirms what she has suspected, has known since Loki first led them to the trail of prints.

" _Hreindýri_?" she whispers, leaning close to the prince's ear hidden beneath his golden helm. There can be no more than twenty of the animals, some with frighteningly large antlers, deadly in their shape and the power of the bodies that carry them. The herd is making its way over the open plain, between the high walls of the mountains and the thick edges of the forest.

" _Já_." Loki's eyes are hungry, and as they walk along the path of the trees, hidden from sight, Sif watches: how his heels dig into the stirrups, legs long and powerful beneath layers of leather. His body bends forward over Svaðilfari's neck, golden horns defiant and forward upon his head like an animal, poised to strike. The black of his bow is liquid in his hand, gripped tightly against his mare's reins. Sif listens to his commands, tongue clicking between his teeth and voice breathy in his throat as he guides his mare along the trees' edges; every nuance of movement carried by his precise tugs on her reins and the flickers of tension in his thighs, guiding. Sif cannot help but see him, desire him, the prince's teeth bared sharp as he draws breath deep over his tongue, spine curved cat-like and waiting.

It is Loki at his finest, at his most raw, like a brilliant metal dug from the earth to be forged.

(And how she will bend and break and build him so.)

Loki turns to the warrior, leaning close to whisper in her ear. "Here the forest branches off onto both sides; I want you to take the left, following the mountains' edges. I will take the right, since it allows me to get closer to the herd without being seen."

"Do you wish me to herd them like a sheepdog, into your line of fire?" Sif questions.

"The mountains dip down to the right, leveling out where the herd could turn tail and stampede its way up, making pursuit much more difficult." the prince responds. "You can ambush them from the left and run them down to the forest, where I will be waiting." Sif watches his brow curve beneath the golden helm, eyes narrowed and mind a whirlwind of strategies, plotted out like pictures behind his vision. It is so like War, like herself, the intricacy of preparation and subtlety of surprise singing through her veins, instinct buried in her bones. It is one of the many reasons she is drawn to the prince, and has been for centuries: they are War and Trickery, entwined, a king and queen upon a playing field they have long since made and mastered.

"I shall do my best," Sif returns, dark hair brushing against the line of Loki's helmet over his jaw. 

"Wait for my signal," he answers, breath warm upon her cheek. She shares one last look with the prince, his eyes trailing up her body to meet her own, mouth parted ever-so and teeth flashing in the perpetual moonlight. He looks hungry, wanting, and Sif knows it is far more than the Hunt and the promises of the feasting tables. He is an animal in the shade of glorious madness, crowned in golden horns and draped in rich fabrics and leathers, but he wants only for the Hunt, and for her.

Sif clicks to her stallion to follow the line of the trees, walking slow along the side of the mountain, watching the _hreindýri_ move and the prince who seeks them. She can see him across the clearing, a whisper through the thick trees as he moves towards the herd, waiting until they pause to graze. He loosens his grip on Svaðilfari's reins, sitting tall upon his mare, slipping an arrow from the quiver on his back. He does not draw it yet, continuing to inch closer and closer to the forest's edge until he cannot move without entering the clearing.

A few of the reindeer lift their heads, pausing in their grazing, eyes searching and ears tilting, listening. Sif pauses her stallion with her thighs, silent and tense against his sides over the Yule cloths, and her breath slows. She can barely see Loki, hunched down upon Svaðilfari into the thick cover of the fir trees, only the tips of his golden horns peeking out. Both Hunters wait with baited breath, willing the herd to stay still as long as possible so they themselves may make the first move, and not the opposite.

When the _hreindýri_ begin to graze once more, gathered into their loose circle, the warrior watches Loki rise up from the thickets, arrow sliding into place as he draws it, button to his lips and his armored body curved perfect and poised.

When he yells to spur Svaðilfari into a gallop, the black mare darting out of the trees, Sif knows it is her signal to do the same.

The herd panics, thundering towards the forest-covered mountainside, and the warrior yells to Lóriði, careening after them. The animals jerk at her sudden appearance, turning towards the forest until Loki appears beside them, and now both Hunters have the herd surrounded. Sif drives the _hreindýri_ down the sloping plains, further from the mountain edges, and Loki guides Svadilfari right behind the herd, arrow aimed at the animal with the largest horns, and he lets it go.

The weapon misses, sticking harmless into the ground they quickly leave behind. Sif sees lightning in his eyes, teeth bared sharp as the prince whips another from his quiver, drawing again. He clicks his mare forward, faster, driving her deeper into the herd. Loki's heels dig into the stirrups, horns titled down aggressive and defiant against the snow and ice clouding in the air, and his arms reach, letting loose the second arrow.

This time, he does not miss.

The wounded reindeer falls, legs giving out, and hits the ground in a cloud of snow and ice and upturned dirt, bellowing in pain and fear. Sif pulls Lóriði's reins hard, directing him back towards the first fallen arrow so she can retrieve it before returning to Loki, the prince having already turned his mare to make his way to his kill. He jumps from Svaðilfari, pulling a long, gleaming dagger from the hidden sheath in his boot. Kneeling beside the dying animal, his free hand holds the reindeer down as the other impales the blade through its flesh to its heart, delivering the killing blow.

"From _móðir_ Yggdrasill you came, and to _móðir_ Yggdrasill you now return," Loki recites, panting from the exertion, one hand upon the reindeer's lifeless eyes, the other pulling the dagger from its chest. "Your spirit becomes part of the Allthing once more, reunited with the Great Mother, and your body is left behind to become a part of the _Æsir_."

Sif stands beside Lóriði, waiting silent behind the prince, watching; where she pressed her lips to her offering's fur, Loki bows his head, golden horns meeting velvety, powerful antlers. It is his own form of respect for the life he has taken to nourish their own.

(He remembers the lives of those he had taken in his anger, Sif knows, and the burden of them weighs upon his shoulders still; heavy in the spaces of his armor, in prayers for their lives he can never offer that drip too late from his teeth.)

Loki wipes the blood from the knife and the wounding arrow in the snow, sheathing the blade within the leather of his boot and returning the arrow to the quiver on his back. Sif kneels down beside him, waiting, presence offered if necessary. The prince takes her hand, digging his fingers into her palm, biting into the fur lining his own gloves. His gaze does not meet her own, eyes fixed on the reindeer lying lifeless before them both. Sif grips his hand with all the force he does hers; this is the first life he has taken with purpose since his return, not out of defense or danger. The cold metal of his helmet is ice against her cheek as his head tilts down, golden horns brushing against her snow-dampened hair. The warrior watches as his eyes close, breath drawn deep, the faint ghost of a shiver rippling down his spine, body pressed next to hers.

"You have found your offering," Sif whispers, setting Loki's first arrow upon his hand. "Do you wish to return now?" It is moments before he answers, gloved fingers folding around the retrieved weapon before slipping it within his quiver again.

" _Já_."

"It is a beautiful animal," the warrior observes, voice quiet, running a hand through the thick, dappled fur untainted by blood. The velvety horns upon the animal's head are mesmerizing in their shape and the power they once held as a signal to other creatures, telling of a long life and wonderful strength. Sif sees such things in the horns upon Loki's helm, their edges sharp like daggers and intimidating, curves beautiful in the bravery and courage of the man who carries their weight with pride.

"It will be a fine offering, fit for the grandeur of Ásgarðr's tables," Loki states, bending down to carry the reindeer within his arms, back to Svaðilfari. It is small for one of its kind, perhaps the smallest of the long-gone herd, though it carries horns curved long and beautiful with age.

When Sif sits upon her stallion once more and the prince upon his mare, offerings secured, both Hunters turn their eyes towards the heavens, glacier-blue in the polar night that covers the snowy landscape.

"Good Heimdallr," Loki calls, "we seek to return."

A flash of light, and then they are gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(I have opted to use the old norse forms [or the closest things to them] for any person, place, or object names in this fic. in addition, in some iterations of the comics, the aesir natively speak a language other than english and use english only when speaking to humans, which I have chosen to use here as well by differentiating between old norse and english forms of words.)_  
>   
> 
>  _yggdrasill_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'yggdrasil'.
> 
>  _móðir_ \- old norse for 'mother'.
> 
>  _heimdallr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'heimdall'.
> 
>  _týsdóttir_ \- the patronymic i have given to sif, which i have seen used often in many fanfics; týr is the god of single combat, victory and heroic glory in norse mythology, sharing similarities with sif's movie and comic characterization as the goddess of war.
> 
>  _yule and the wild hunt_ \- yule is celebrated by the Germanic peoples (and celebrated by many neopagans to this day), and many elements of modern christmas celebrations are ones carried down from the pre-christian traditions of pagan yule; the event was/is centered on or around midwinter (the winter solstice); scholars have connected the celebration to the wild hunt, the god odin, increased supernatural activity, and the pagan anglo-saxon _modranicht_. the wild hunt is an ancient folk myth prevalent across northern, western and central europe; the fundamental premise in all instances is the same: a phantasmal, spectral group of huntsmen with the accoutrements of hunting, horses, hounds, etc., in mad pursuit across the skies or along the ground, or just above it; for fic purposes, i have turned yule into a celebration of the ending of the old year and the beginning of the new, and turned the wild hunt into an event for the gathering of offerings for feasting: in representation of the end of one year and the beginning of another, the end of lives who have come before and the beginning of those who have yet to come.
> 
>  _ásgarðr_ – old norse form of the anglicized asgard, meaning 'enclosure of the _æsir_ '.
> 
>  _miðgarðr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'midgard'.
> 
>  _svaðilfari_ \- in norse mythology, the stallion that impregnated loki (in the form of a mare), who later gave birth to the eight-legged sleipnir; like in the mythology, in the thor movie, odin is seen riding on an eight-legged horse, a nod to sleipnir and his role as odin's mount; svaðilfari in the fic is loki's mare, another nod to mythology.
> 
>  _lóriði_ \- sif's stallion, yet another mythological nod, but in name only; lóriði was the name of one of thor and sif's many children in norse mythology.
> 
>  _nei_ \- old norse for 'no'.
> 
>  _frigg_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'frigga'.
> 
>  _iðavǫllr_ \- in norse mythology, a location referenced twice in _völuspá_ , the first poem in the poetic edda, as a meeting place of the gods. in the fic it is used as the name for the palaces we saw in the movie and their complexes.
> 
>  _thórr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'thor'; the old norse spelling is _Þórr_ ( _þ_ is the original old norse letter, later replaced by the digraph _th_ all except for icelandic, where it is still used today), but I figured the unfamiliar letter would be confusing and opted to change it to _th_ in the spelling.
> 
>  _valhöll_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'valhalla'.
> 
>  _bróðir_ – old norse for 'brother'.
> 
>  _hlín and gná_ \- in norse mythology, two of frigg's attendants.
> 
>  _óðinn_ – old norse form of the anglicized odin.
> 
>  _alföðr_ – old norse for 'all-father'.
> 
>  _miðsumarr_ \- old norse for 'midsummer'.
> 
>  _jötunheimr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'jotunheim'.
> 
>  _kongeriket norge_ \- norwegian name for the kingdom of norway.
> 
>  _nock_ \- the end of an arrow, usually feathered.
> 
>  _æsir_ – old norse plural for the people of asgard; marvel calls them asgardians, but I prefer the original term.
> 
>  _fylg mik_ \- old norse for 'follow me'.
> 
>  _hreindýri_ \- old norse for 'reindeer'.
> 
>  _já_ \- old norse for 'yes'.
> 
>  _loki and sif's prayers_ \- my own personal beliefs are a mix of deism, animism, pantheism, and universalism, coupled with a heavy does of neale donald walsche's _conversations with god_ trilogy. also, i kind of totally borrowed the idea from james cameron's _avatar_ , but it's the same basic principle.


	2. Chapter 2

The heady scent of the offering halls brushes against Sif's bath-warmed cheeks, hovering around her like the fog of early morning as she and Loki make their way to the palace's innermost rooms. Both Hunters have left the feasting tables and warm camaraderie behind for the night, having refreshed and eaten their share of the first Hunt's rewards. Altars and bonfires decorate the villages and towns of Ásgarðr like fireflies, flickering far in the distances and around every corner, homes and hearths burning bright towards Yggdrasill. Loki's boots click loud upon the marble floors as they walk, the comfortable silence broken only by the echo of their steps and the burning of the torches that guide their way, flames crackling and flickering into the night.

The God of Mischief is silent beside her, his presentation cradled gently in his hold. The glow of the flames casts shadows upon the curve of his offering's antlers and the dips of its skull, ethereally white and cleaned with magick by the prince's own hands. Beside her he is regal, crowned once more in golden horns and clothed in the finest of leathers and fabrics, his armor liquid and shining in the firelight. His steps are calm, eyes ink-dark and deep, and in them Sif can see stars, fire-bright and burning.

They soon come to stand before the engraved doors of the offering room, opened wide by the armored guards who watch over it. The warrior lets Loki lead the way, and the scent of fir trees and fire fills her lungs, vibrant and fresh.

The chamber is low-lit and warm, pine wreaths upon the walls decorated with sparkling baubles, holly and ivy lining the altar before them. Offerings of harvest foods and weaved crowns of pine branches and berries cover the table, left with care and honor to the World Tree; Sif knows they and all others left during the Yule-season will be burned upon the sacred pyres in the coming weeks, gifts given back to _móðir_ Yggdrasill who has given to the Nine Realms so much more.

The warrior ascends the few steps to the altar beside Loki, watching as he gently sets the skull upon the flowers and fir branches. No words pass between them, neither wishing to disturb the quiet atmosphere; its heady warmth is permeated only by the faint echo of ancient words offered to the World Tree in the songs of feasting, celebrating citizens. The God of Mischief dips his head to the tapestry hung on the wall behind the decorated table, _móðir_ Yggdrasill and the Realms in her care depicted upon it. His golden horns meet the white antlers of his offering a final time, in acknowledgement of its life taken to nourish their own, returned to the Allthing to begin again.

Sif places her own offering upon the skull, the circlet of fir branches and berries nestled between the gleaming white antlers. In her gift she honors the lands upon which Ásgarðr's people and animals live, all beings nourished by the ground upon which they walk. In Loki's gift he honors the beings whose lives sustain the _Aesir_ and each other, and whose remains return to the lands that give birth to them all. Together they complete the circle upon which all life turns, eternal and unending; and when Sif holds his jaw, lined in gold and strong beneath her touch, in Loki's eyes she can see peace.

The warrior weaves her fingers between his own, his skin warmed inside the golden halls, protected from the nipping cold of the outside. There is darkness beneath his eyes, shadows born of the Hunt and the snows, and she can tell he is exhausted. Sif is tired herself, wishing now to strip away her cloak and gown and gold for the crisp feel of sheets, and she guides the God of Mischief from the offering room. The whispers of fire and sap-scent cling in her hair, lingering vibrant in her lungs.

 

" _Kom með mér_ ," Loki asks of her, the warrior's wrist held in his fire-warm fingers. The offering chambers are long behind them, their steps leading them to the higher balconies of the palace; the snows fall heavy upon the grounds, covering the Realm Eternal in soft, glittering white. The bite of the Yule-season digs towards her skin, gnawing through the thick layers of cloth and cloak upon her shoulders, flitting through her hair curled wide around her face.

"I will accompany you only if you intend to lead me somewhere warm," Sif teases. "I fear I have already grown weary of the winter on its first night alone." The God of Mischief says nothing, though the warrior catches the corner of his mouth turning upward in a mocking grin, flickering away as quickly as she had seen it come.

"I shall do my best not to disappoint," Loki replies, voice low in his throat and undertoned with the promise of something more than refuge from the cold. His fingers slip from her wrist, curling around the small of her back, between the spaces of her ribs where there are secrets known only to the prince and herself.

The walk from the balconies to his chambers is a short one, Sif reveling in the scent of ancient tomes and ink that hovers around every nook and corner in his rooms. With a flick of his wrist, the second prince revives the dwindling flames in the hearth, their heat brushing over the warrior's skin like watercolor as she pulls him to her. 

Sif has watched him in his armor and leather since the bonfires began, has looked upon his golden horns and cheeks painted with the red of the cold as a predator does its prey; she has sat upon her horse beside him, has traced the line of his armored shoulders and trailed the expanse of his chest with her eyes, hidden beneath the blacks and greens he has always favored. She has seen him strong upon Svaðilfari, thighs tense against the mare's flanks, molding her form with clicks and barks to guide her. The warrior has followed the curve of his spine and line of his arms with memory's touch, bow drawn tight at his lips, body taut and poised to strike. In those moments she had wanted for him, drawn to the strength buried bone-deep within him; and though Sif has never sought her gratification instantly, there is nothing more to keep her from the body beneath her touch, primal and raw before her.

The warrior's fingers trace the gold of Loki's helm, warmed by the fires of the feasting rooms and the heat of his body; it is worn beneath her fingers, intricate designs carved into the surface and the runes of protective spells inscribed among them. The God of Mischief is solid against her, eyes darkened with want for more, mouth parted ever-so in silence. Sif draws her fingers through his unruly mane of hair, curled inky and shining against his collar, nails trailing lightning over his neck and the indentations of his spine beneath metal and leather. The prince's hands pull her hips against his own, crushing them together, and she feels his shiver through the fabric of her gown though her eyes do not see it. His fingers tangle in the warrior's hair, long and dark over her cloak and adorned with glittering gold, nails prickling like stars against her scalp, pulling her mouth to his.

Sif rises to meet Loki, a head shorter than the prince, fingers fanned out over the liquid-dark leather and verdant fabric clothing him. The God of Mischief curves and preens into the warrior's touch as she pulls away, his shoulders set proud and chest forward, eyes following her fingers as she trails them down down. Her nails press into the thick leather, digging promises into the inky black. His lips are parted to her thumb as her other hand tilts his jaw down, his teeth grazing her skin like razors, double-edged and gleaming. Sif has seen Loki bare his canines in threat to their enemies, has felt them paint her body with blood-marks like watercolor; there is beauty in the way they hover over her skin, powerful but poised, like the rest of him. In them the warrior can see everything she hasn't yet felt of him, and all she seeks to relive beneath her touch again.

His eyes are dark and deep, blown wide like an animal clothed in the cover of darkness, and the second prince is a predator on the hunt: for her salt-skin, her heat, her form full beneath his fingertips, for the Sif he has always known beneath the glinting armor and worn leathers. She unlatches the broach securing her cloak, letting the lavender material fall thick and silent at her feet upon the carpets. Loki's fingers slip through her ink-dark hair, undoing the clasps of her collared gown, flitting between the ruffles of lace around the warrior's neck. He is hard against her softer form, all metal and gold and strength lying eager beneath supple blacks and forest-greens, waiting to be unleashed. 

Sif moves her thumb from his lips, nails trailing over his jaw as her mouth meets his own once more, wanting, needing. The God of Mischief tastes like mead and the frosts of Miðgarðr, licked with the care of the Bifröst's magick and the electric pull of his own. The people of Ásgarðr call him Silvertongue for his liquid words and guarded eloquence, but the warrior knows him by such a name for entirely different reasons as his tongue trails over her bottom lip, teeth biting her skin blush-red and dark. The God of Mischief pushes aside the fold of her gown, one hand sliding down the expanse of her back, heated by fire burning in more than just the hearth. Sif is smooth and firm beneath his palm, her spine curved like the line of a serpent, deadly in its beauty and the strength hidden in its form. The prince hides a whimper in the warrior's mouth and she makes it her own, eager to rip raw a great deal more from his throat.

Loki's hands push the fabric of her gown from her shoulders, their form limned in light and the heat of the fire beside them; his lips part from her own to trace a trail down her neck, over the golden necklaces and glimmering jewels that adorn her collar. The warrior's skin is hearth-warm beneath his kisses and her fingers tangle in his hair, pressing the God of Mischief and his mouth to her body. 

His armor is solid beneath her hands as they flit across his proud shoulders and broad chest; were it any other night she would hook her fingers beneath the leather straps and metal buckles, she knows their shape well enough. But this night is the Hunt and its beginning, the Yule-season wide before Ásgarðr like one of her fields to be tread upon with care. This night Sif has seen the horned god like their ancestors of old, high upon his mare and bow drawn taught, teeth bared to the wind for scent and spine delicately curved. The Hunt has left them both in yearning, raw like animals who need nothing but instinct, this act the highest honor to _móðir_ Yggdrasill and the greatest gift she can give.

The thick fabric of her dress slips silent to the soft rug, Sif bared to the God of Mischief's gaze. The tiny braids of gold woven into her hair glitter brilliant-bright in the firelight, cascading like water down her back; those draped around her neck flow like streams through marble, settled upon her skin. Loki's eyes are dark and deep with want, brows tilted eager for her body as he pulls her close, his mouth upon her own and hands sliding slow up her sides, down her arms and up again.

Sif's tongue slides against the prince's, fighting wicked and dirty for dominance when she feels the prickle of magick in the air, the hair on her arms bristling at the static of it. Loki's wrist flicks against her back and before his armor glimmers with the spell she stops him, wrist held tight between her fingers. His tongue stills against her own, brows knit, a puzzled looked upon his face as he pulls away.

"I want this," the warrior tells him, her hands upon his shoulders, armor unyielding beneath them.

"Of that I am well aware," the second prince's words are breathy and tinted with laughter, "and yet why-" Sif presses a finger to his lips, silencing the golden-horned god, eyes trailing down his lean form clothed in liquid leathers and verdant greens.

" _Nej_ , Loki," Sif interrupts, hands sliding down his chest, over the gold and leather layers, fingers feeling between the folds of forest-green fabric. The warrior traces the square form of Loki's shoulders, over the engraved gold upon his arms, trails a hand over the plated strap crossed over her chest. She grips it tight, the metal worn and warm to her touch, and pulls him down to kiss her. The God of Mischief is hard metal and supple leather against her, draped in the finest cloths and heady with the scent of frost and firs; his golden horns curve above her head, powerful like the prince that bears their weight and honor, protective in the space that surrounds her.

Loki is power and dominance and intimidation and bravery, equal in all of the things Sif bears upon her own shoulders beneath her armor and leathers. His Mischief and Trickery are entwined with her War and Valor, each an asset to the other and it is this he can taste in her kisses as she pulls him down, this she can feel in his touch as he bids her rise to meet him.

"I want _this_ ," Sif whispers against his lips, her grip firm on the plated strap held in her fingers, leather taut between herself and the second prince. The God of Mischief curls a hand in her hair, tangling in the dark strands and bright gold as he crushes her mouth to his, his other hand spread against the small of her back. The warrior leans into his body, long and thin against her own, wanting to feel smooth leather and textured fabrics, indent carved metal and gold into her skin.

Loki spins her in his hold, pressing her hard against his chest, breath drawn sharp and deep when Sif's fingers curl into the leather over his hips, sliding over the bones and down his thighs. The horned god slips a hand between her legs, the other over her breast, teasing, the touch Sif seeks but not one enough she needs. His fingers find her clit with practised ease, his mouth hot and wet against her skin as he covers her shoulder in kisses, teeth grazing where her neck meets her collarbone. The warrior shivers with the familiarity of it, skin flushed from more than the fire, reaching a hand around to tug at what she can of the prince's hair, bring him closer, closer, as close as she can.

Loki's fingers are relentless between her legs, slipping and sliding wet against her thighs, bringing Sif to the edge time and again but never letting her fall, keeping her where he wants her. She growls in frustration but Loki pulls her to the rug with him, settling her in his lap, hands trailing over her thighs thick with muscle and firm beneath his touch. The warrior's eyes follow the lines of his coat, edged with gold and lined in his favorite forest-greens, fanned upon the floor beneath his cape, laid proud in the firelight beside them. Sif pulls his mouth to her breast, and where he begins and his adornments end she is not sure. All of him is melted gold and green in the fire, the blacks of his leathers shadowed dark and deep and the God of Mischief is an animal before her, beneath her; his praise upon her body comes instinctual like the words to _móðir_ Yggdrasill that have poured equal and reverent from their tongues in all times and places, from all things beneath her Branches.

Loki pulls one of her hands from his hair, guiding it down between them both, breaking the kiss with a growl from low in his throat as Sif's fingers work their own brand of magick upon him. The second prince's breath comes heavy and hot upon her skin as he nuzzles her cheek, the gilded gold of his helm warm and unyielding against her in stark contrast to his kisses. The God of Mischief moans and whimpers into her mouth, against the glittering gold around her neck, a hand pressing her own between his legs, hips rising to meet Sif's; the warrior maps with her eyes the shape of his darkened gaze and brows knit in something that is pain and pleasure all at once, traces his kiss-reddened bottom lip and the line of his jaw with her touch. Her fingers tangle in the laces of his trousers to free him, undoing them with a practiced hand and pulling his body over hers as she slides down to the soft rug beneath them both.

Loki blankets her entire form, hot and heady above her as his leathers and cloak fall guardian around them, limned bright in the light of the blazing hearth. His tongue traces the line of the warrior's neck, in the dip of her collarbones and over the curve of her breasts, nipping and sucking, licking her salt-skin and hungry for more, always _more_ and Sif is ever-willing, ever-giving. The prince slides a hand down her belly, skin soft beneath his palm as she slides one of her legs against his own, yanking him down upon her. His laugh is breathy in her ear; the warrior's zeal never ceases to amuse him, and whether in battle or the bedroom she is fierce, taking of what she wants and he is ever-willing and ever-giving, equal all the same.

Loki's hand moves from her belly to between her legs, fingers sliding wet and slick over her clit, teasing, hitting every sweet spot but the one Sif wants. Her frustrated snarl becomes a hitched yelp as his long fingers slip sudden inside her, first two, then three, more than nothing but still not _enough_ as his body pins her to the rug. The scent of sweat and fire and the tang of metal burn vibrant in her lungs, their tastes linger fresh on the warrior's tongue, and Loki's lips upon her own are no more a balm to her than his fingers are a fix for the cravings of her body.

The horned god's fingers scissor and curl inside her, working their way within, his thumb brushing her clit with frustrating scarcity. Sif's nails scratch over his shoulders, armor rough and heated beneath them, her own fingers tangling in the straps and folds of his leathers, pulling and digging in, wanting. Loki's fingers are slow to leave her and he drags them across her chest, licking up the wet trails that gleam in the firelight like a cat at cream, and the warrior swears the prince is damn near _purring_ for her as he works. His tongue traces the line of her neck and he pauses, helm upon his forehead meeting her own with a startling gentleness, as if to prepare himself. Sif brushes her nose with his, cradling the warm gold covering his jaw, drawing his mouth to hers as he draws himself over her, around her, _within_ her.

The God of Mischief is steady above her, drowning keening whimpers and aching cries in her kisses, offering them to the warrior as he did the stag's skull to the World Tree, _I see you, I see and acknowledge the things that you have given to me, and I offer them returned in their glory to you_. His movements are slow at first, both for Sif and himself, and she knows he is sweat-drenched and hot beneath the heavy golds and leathers and fabrics, skin flushed from the fire and so much more. She can tell by the quickness of his breath that he is already close, her eariler ministrations and his own exhaustion taking their toll, and her fingers reach between them, sparking stars behind her eyes as plentiful as those amidst Yggdrasill's Branches.

Loki moves rough and quick within her, in out in out like the breath of the universe and the sway of the Great _Móðir_ in the cosmos above them, eyes unfocused and pleasure-dark, skin sweat-slick against her as his lips meet hers with bruising, biting need. The God of Mischief digs the toes of his boots into the floor, spine curved cobra-like and tall above Sif as her hand slides over his shoulders, feeling hard metal and supple leather; her fingers grip forest-green fabrics, reveling in the powerful being animal-like and primal surrounding her. His bottom lip is bit taut between his teeth, moans ripped ragged and raw from his throat as he breathes sharp above her, and the sounds alone are almost enough to send the warrior over the edge, make her see stars not only behind her eyes. Her name drips from his teeth like water, endless in her ears, _Sif, Sif, beloved Sif_ and when she comes it is blinding, blinding white, like the burning light of the Bifröst's magick and sunlight upon snow at midday. The warrior tightens around the prince, pulling him closer, closer, as close as she can, his magick instinctual and vibrant through his veins and upon her skin, melding to their forms as they move, both hunting for completion and the body between them that is already One.

Loki is close behind, unable to bite back a keening, high moan from his throat, hitched and broken as he stills within her; Sif watches his eyes, unfocused and wide with pleasure, head crowned in those gleaming golden horns, feels his arms tremble with the weight of his adornments as she holds them steady. His hips press down hard upon hers, toes of his boots digging into the floor as he buries himself within her as far as he can, eyes rolling back into his head as the God of Mischief collapses upon her, breath drawn deep as he lies upon her. Sif welcomes him to her hold, caressing his arms beneath gold and leather. For all she loves it, the edges of his helm now dig uncomfortably into her collar, and she tugs it, the prince lifting his head enough for her to remove it and set it gently down upon the floor. The warrior's hand card through his thick, sweat-drenched hair, inky and curled wide around his head.

One of Loki's hands lifts lazily from her shoulder, flicking familiar and fast and his armor and trappings glimmer away, leaving him naked atop her. It is a testament to his exhaustion that Sif sees his ceremonial armaments scattered haphazardly around the floor instead of neat upon their stands, and she cannot hold back the quiet laughter that escapes her lips, pressed in comfort to his hair. The prince sits up on his elbows and turns his head to follow her eyes, a noncommital noise low in his throat as his gaze returns to hers, cheeks flushed scarlet and breath slow once more.

"You," Sif begins with a coy smile, tapping his nose with her index finger, "need another bath."

"And the same could be said of you," the prince retorts, pressing his hips deliberately into her own, and she feels him still inside her, the space between her legs hot and sticky. She licks her lips, and Loki swallows, watching.

"Since I am already in your chambers, I have no option but to join you." Her hands flit through his hair, long and dark, curled around her fingers.

"Something tells me that is exactly what you planned," the God of Mischief growls playfully as his lips meet Sif's, this time gentle and chaste. The fire burns low and quiet beside them, and the warrior licks love into his mouth like water, dripping from her teeth to pool around them both, settled into the space beneath them to linger long after they have left. Bonfires reach towards Yggdrasill under the stars, and above Ásgarðr her Branches glitter. Sif tastes peace upon Loki's tongue, in the spaces of his ribs and the curve of his body atop her own, and she sends her prayers skyward, burning within the fire to the Great _Móðir_ beyond.

_I see you, I see and acknowledge the things that you have given to me, and I offer them returned in their glory to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _altar and offerings_ \- i am absolutely fascinated with ancient pagan, neopagan, and wiccan practices and their spiritual components and teachings; almost all of this fic was based upon elements from each of these belief systems, with much reference to neale donald walsche's _conversations with god_ trilogy and some of my own elaboration.
> 
>  _kom með mér_ \- old norse for 'come with me'; if you know i messed up, do feel free to correct me! i'm only a russian/german major, and i don't claim to know the ins and outs of every language.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which loki and sif stand on a balcony during a snowfall and wax existential on the meaning of life and red in ledgers while dressed in only robes and blankets, then proceed to have excruciatingly hot life-affirming graphic sex. 
> 
> i'm not kidding, that's really all this chapter is.

_"En nú varð að halda hátíð og fagna, því hann bróðir þinn, sem var dauður, er lifnaður aftur, hann var týndur og er fundinn."_  
                                                                                                                               - _Lúkasarguðspjall_ 15: 32

 

 

Sif wakes with a shiver, the twinkle of the cosmos bright in the sky over the balcony. Sleep hangs heavy around her head like fireflies, vision fuzzy and head clouded with cotton in exhaustion. The sheets beneath her are soft with her body heat, but the chill of the Yule-season creeps between them, prickling icy against her skin. The comforting, warm body she had fallen alseep against is now absent, the space next to her now bare and cold. The warrior lifts her head, eyes adjusting to the darkness without the glow of the hearth, and she can see a shape outlined against the stars, tall against the painter's palette of colors and dust.

Loki's back is towards her as he stands on the balcony, a robe of thick, forest-green fabric hanging loose from his shoulders. The dark mane of his hair is speckled with snow, flakes diamond-like and bright in the strands that curl wide and long around his face. A breeze flutters the wayward locks, blowing through the tied curtain, frozen from the mountains beyond. In the distance Sif can see bonfires still burning, many of Ásgarðr's villages and towns far from slumber. The God of Mischief's head is tilted upwards, gaze set long into the distance, the line of his shoulders gentle without the glint of gleaming gold and hard metal.

Wrapping one of the many thick blankets around her body, Sif sets her feet down upon the plush rug beneath the bed, preparing herself for the bitter cold of winter-chilled marble as she descends the dais of steps and makes her way out towards the second prince. It is a testament to his concentration that he does not turn to meet her eyes as she comes to stand beside him, fingers trailing over his crossed hands behind his back from beneath the warm fur.

"You look as if you are in another _heimr_ , Loki," the warrior begins, "with how distant your gaze seems. Whereupon the World Tree's Branches have your thoughts settled?" It is moments before he speaks, his eyes unmoving from the cosmos.

"On this night, I find my thoughts have wandered to the Great _Móðir_ herself."

"You are most certainly not alone, then," Sif replies, sliding her fingers over the palm of his hand, lacing his with her own. For all the cold that surrounds them and the nature of the land that gave birth to him, his skin is heated beneath her touch, warmth comforting as her body pulls it from him, drinking it in.

"Heavy are the words we carry in her honor," the warrior continues, eyes fixed on his hand in her own, "much like the offerings upon our shoulders when we return from the Hunt."

"And much like the weight of the lives we have taken to protect our own," the God of Mischief says, his piercing green gaze meeting Sif's, eyes unfocused and dark, unending.

"The lives we have taken sit upon our shoulders like armor, as we carry the weight of those who have died for our cause because they no longer can," the warrior continues. She knows where Loki is headed; she has anticipated such a conversation for months and is desperate for its catharsis as a starving man is for a feast.

"In living you are returned from death, and in dying you are given new life once more," Loki recites. "From _móðir_ Yggdrasill you came, and to _móðir_ Yggdrasill you now return."

"Yggdrasill who is _móðir_ to all things; she who gives life and takes it as well. Yggdrasill from whence all things come at their beginning, and to whom all things return at their end," Sif takes up the ancient words, turns them over on her tongue, between her teeth, her mother's voice flickering behind her eyes. "Yggdrasill who protects the delicate balance of life and death, letting go all that wishes to be free of her and welcoming into her arms all that seeks to return. Unto forever and ever, world without end, always and in all ways," the warrior finishes. The funeral prayer is heavy on her tongue, and her father is ash in her mouth, burning. She brings Loki's hand to her lips, taking of his warmth and giving back her own.

"It has been long since such words last left my lips," Sif murmurs against his hand, eyes closing against the memories gnawing behind her eyes. Both of them know the words she cannot bring herself to say, and Loki wraps his fingers around her hands, holding them in his own.

"We mourned for you, Loki," Sif continues. "All of Ásgarðr mourned for you. They called you the Lost Prince, gone too young and taken before your time, but never forgotten. Thórr led your funeral pyre himself, and although he thought you dead, he never did believe it so."

"You mourned a liar and a killer," the God of Mischief retorts, although his voice holds no malice and his tone is soft, deflected.

"We mourned a child of Yggdrasill," Sif returns, fingers tightening around Loki's own. "Whether _Jötunn_ or _Aesir_ , you are born of the World Tree and her care. In this regard we are all equal." Her eyes are downcast, thumbs kneading his palms, her touch reverent.

"I had wished to be free," the God of Mischief reflects, voice low as the snows blanket the lands below them both, air vibrant and frozen in their lungs. "The spaces between the Realms distorted my memories, made them one with the lies I had begun to believe myself."

"Thórr did not fling me from the edge of the Bifröst," Loki admits what Sif already knows, looking down at his hands before returning his gaze to the stars. "I let myself go, believing that if I was left to die by Jötunheimr and unwanted by Ásgarðr, then there was no place for me at all amongst Yggdrasill's Branches."

"You thought your _bróðir_ had thrown you down to the World Tree's hold, back to her as if you were dead, your soul returned as if this life was finished and no more," Sif concludes.

"Until the Titan came," Loki goes on. "He offered me a purpose, a place, a planet and dominion over it if I succeeded; everything I had convinced myself I wanted. I proved myself worthy to Thanos as but a pawn for his schemes, no better than the mortals I had so viciously scorned, lying and killing in the name of a liar and killer far greater than myself," the God of Mischief finishes, and Sif's nail dig into his skin, drawing his gaze to her own, guiding him from the dark places, the things better left behind.

"And we are _all_ liars and killers," she breathes. "The only thing that changes is our cause." Loki is silent for many moments, staring out over the balcony, into the depths of the cosmos and their colors. Yggdrasill's Branches are bright against the darkness, glittering.

"The Master Archer told me everything," he begins. "About the Man of Iron who once made weapons that fuelled slaughters, and the Captain out of time who fought in the second of their great wars. He spoke to me of the Doctor who kept a monster hidden away beneath his skin, and the Black Widow whom he himself had saved, though her work was no less heinous than his own." Sif recalled each of them with pride, and how they had fought alongside Ásgarðr when the Mad Titan had come, defending the Realm with burning ferocity as if it were their own.

"He told me of the blood on their hands, how all of them are murderers in their ways, capable of the sliest cunning and basest cruelty," the God of Mischief continues. "And yet they are each loved by someone, someone who can see past the horrors and atrocities they have committed to something greater underneath."

Sif nudges the prince playfully, her balled fist digging into his arm. Her eyebrows are arched when his gaze meets her own, knowing, her head nodding towards him. _Just like you_ , she thinks, _and myself, and all of us_.

"I believed myself above the mortals, a God upon their earth," Loki admits, eyes dark and deep as they look upon the warrior. "I called them liars and killers, dogs of war in the service of greater liars and killers, and it was only too late that I realized I was one and the same."

"We like to think we are greater than humans, better than the _Jǫtnar_ and stronger than the _Vanir_ and all of the other beings with whom we share the Great _Móðir_ 's hold," Sif says with a quirk of her lips, a humorless laugh prickling on her tongue. "It is Ásgarðr's curse: we claim to teach others of humility and place, and yet we know nothing of our own."

"I quarrelled with Thórr when he arrived on Midgarðr, and spoke to him of my plans, of the deal I had made and the order I would bring," Loki explains. 

"I told him I was a king, and he did not deny it; only that Midgarðr was not the place. I was no better than he when he had stood before the _Alföðr_ after Jötunheimr, raging at his birthright's theft and chastized for his reckless greed for more than his share."

" _Bræður_ not in blood, but in bond," Sif comforts the second prince, smiling, her dark hair speckled with snowflakes, curled wide around her face. "You are alike in your ways, your journeys, your mistakes and the ways you have mended them. You both are not so different after all."

It is a testament to how far they have come that the God of Mischief does not anger at her words; once, long ago he would have, disgusted at the thought that he was anything like the Thunder God. Once he had wanted to bring all of Ásgarðr to its knees beneath him, if he could not rise above them where they stood.

"We pleaded for Thórr's return not because you were inadequate," the warrior goes on, "but because we wished for our friend to come back to us, his lesson learned and his wrongs set right. Only then could he show you the same."

"I would have killed an entire race because I could, just as he had wanted to on Jötunheimr."

"It is not our right to decide when another returns to the hold of _móðir_ Yggdrasill," Sif says, "and yet in war and anger, we do. Those lives we take rest as heavily on our shoulders as our armor, the blood on our hands seeping into our skin as deep as our own."

"It reminds us of the burden we have taken up for those who can hold it no longer, and in doing so, they are never forgotten," the warrior goes on, and Loki's eyes are bright with stars as he gazes at them, soft with peace.

"I was willing to wade through a river of blood for what I thought I wanted, though I did not wish to drown," the God of Mischief reflects, eyes turning from the deep color and darkness of the cosmos to meet Sif's own. His fingers brush her cheek, skin pinched pink with the cold, palm resting against the line of her jaw. "But I had known all along that I could not have both. The weight of the dead are a punishment enough, with a lifetime to carry them to repentance."

"We have all taken lives for our causes, and so long as we live we will continue to do so," the warrior says, voice quiet and strong. "And one day, the Great _Móðir_ will do the same to us, as she does to all of her children."

"Unto forever and ever, world without end, always and in all ways," Sif finishes, tilting her head into the God of Mischief's touch. He is silent before her, lips parted ever so in something that looks like pain and wonder and fear and love all at once, written in the shape of his teeth and the shine of his eyes against the stars.

He kisses the warrior with a whimper, a cry of need ripped from his throat, pulling her to him like he will never let her go. Sif's fingers tangle in his snow-speckled hair, strands inky and slick against her skin; she licks frost and murder and blood upon his tongue, lies thick between his teeth and she takes them for her own, giving back all of the things held wicked in her throat. His faults are her own, his crimes tasteless in her mouth because she has done no better or worse, and they are equals upon the Great _Móðir_ 's eternal, holy ground.

Loki's tongue slides along her bottom lip, biting the reddened skin between his teeth, hands holding either side of her head as his thumbs trace the line of her jaw. His fingers tangle in her hair and slide along the curve of her neck and down her shoulders, slipping between the blanket of furs keeping her warm. The God of Mischief swallows the warrior's sighs and whimpers, easing her back into the warmth of his chambers, relishing in the contrast of the frozen snow in her hair with the heat of her kisses against his mouth, her body hot against his own.

With a flick of his wrist, the hearth burns bright once more, adding further to the heat of the adorned room. Sif is golden and lithe in the firelight, stealing kisses over his jaw and trailing her nails lightning down his neck, palm spread beneath the thick fabric of his forest-green robe. Loki presses his lips to her neck, the warrior letting the soft furs around her shoulder slip silent to the floor as his hands map the curve of her spine beneath his fingers, the shape of her hip in his palm. Her skin is heated beneath his touch, sweat-slicked and shadowed on his tongue as he licks the salt from the hollow of her collar. The second prince feels her claw at the fabric around his neck, pushing it aside to slither down his back and pool in the crooks of his elbows. Sif's nails prickle up his sides, drawing his breath long and languid from his throat, body pressing closer to hers as the robe slides to the floor.

The warrior moves away, pulling him by the hand up the steps of the dais towards his bed, shoving the God of Mischief playfully to the furs and sheets as she bounds over him. Sif's hair falls guardian around them both, long and dark and thick in Loki's fingers as his nails scratch across her scalp, tingling and prickling down her back. Her mouth on his is gentle now, her kisses slow, the sweep of her tongue over his teeth unhurried and soft. The warrior drags her hands through the dusting of hair on his chest, following the lines of long-healed wounds and ancient scars. The prince moans into her mouth, rocking his hips up into hers, wanting her hands to slide just a little bit lower, just a little bit more.

Loki is surprised when Sif acquiesces so easily, though he makes no show of noticing, only throwing his head back into the soft furs as the warrior lowers herself onto him; the movement is agonizingly slow, her mouth on his like a brand, burning and hot with the heat of her body and the fire in the hearth. The God of Mischief's breath is short and sharp, hissed between his teeth when her nails prickle up his thighs, trailing down the outline of his hipbones, hands spreading over his collarbones. Sif is hot and wet around him, the heat of her body inside and out overtaking him, making him and breaking him and remaking him again, burning. He wants to move, _oh_ how he wants to move but Sif is solid above him, steady as he jerks his hips into hers and arches his back, wanting more, _more_.

The warrior presses his wrists into the furs, taking in the sight of the God of Mischief undone and unmade beneath her, forcing him still to just _feel_. His eyes are glassy and dark in the dim firelight, flames flickering in their depths. His face is painted red with heat, hair inky like the cosmos around them, fanned wild and thick around his face. His breath is uneven and broken, pants and whimpers high and keening amidst the sound of the crackling flames.

It is moments like these that the God of Mischief is at his most beautiful, raw and bare beneath Sif, everything and nothing and all things in-between, Laufeyson and Óðinnson and neither and simply _Loki_ , the only thing he will ever need to be for her.

Sif presses a kiss to the space between his collarbones, lifting her body up and sliding back down torturously slow, drawing a harsh cry from the second prince's throat as her fingers dance feather-light over the soft skin on the inside of his arms, over the crooks of his elbows and the spaces between his ribs.

Loki's fingers dig into the furs beneath him, curling and uncurling, knuckles white with the force of his hold. His hands slide up the warrior's thighs, strong and lean with muscle, following the curve of her hips as he tries to push her down onto him, closer, closer, _faster_ but she is steady and strong against him, unyielding. The God of Mischief pushes himself up, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders, licking heat from her salt-skin as he lifts her up and pulls her down, urging her on. 

Sif presses a kiss to his hair, voice dark with want as her fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, kneading rough and unforgiving, pulling his head back to meet her eyes. The warrior pushes his inky curls from where they are slick against his skin, covering his mouth with hers and feeling him hard inside her, undone beneath her. Loki buries his nose in the crook of her shoulder, his attention a pinpoint, her body wet and wanting around him, steady and strong and _there_.

Sif shoves the prince to the furs, grinding her hips once more into his own as Loki slides a hand between her legs, wrenching a keening whimper from her thoat. The God of Mischief's voice is rough and broken between his teeth, dripping heated and raw from his tongue, undone in the warrior's body as she moves above and around him. Her form is liquid and golden in the firelight, dark hair thick around her face and over her breasts. With one hand Sif leans over the prince's chest, her mouth hot on his skin, kisses hard and bruising over bone.

Completion hits Loki like a wave, sudden and blinding and lightning over his body, prickling down from his fingertips to his toes. The God of Mischief buries a ragged, broken cry in Sif's hair, fingers clenched in the curtain of strands. Everything is hot, white-hot and burning and the warrior holds him close, his head to her breast like a babe in arms, the prince helpless and gasping for breath beneath her. Loki's nails dig into her skin, pulling her as close as he can, bottom lip bit red and raw between his teeth as he comes down, surfacing.

Even through the haze, the prince knows Sif hasn't come, and he reaches a hand between them both to finish what he started, drawing cries of her own from her throat as she holds onto him. Her mouth is rough against his own, kisses hard with tongue and teeth as he feels her finish, her body milking him of all he has to give, burying him inside her so far it _hurts_ (but it's a beautiful kind of hurt, the kind of pain only the living can feel). 

Sif collapses onto Loki's chest, her arms tight around his neck and fingers gripping tightly in his hair. The God of Mischief waits for the world around him to still, the ringing in his ears fading as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, breath evening out as exhaustion claws beneath his skin, gnawing through his bones. The warrior shivers above him, even the fire blazing in the hearth not enough to combat the frozen atmosphere settled heavy outside the room, and Loki slips back the furs and soft sheets. She settles them around her shoulders, bidding the God of Mischief to sleep, lips feather-light on his forehead, though it does not come as easily to her.

_Lo there do I see my father_ , Sif thinks, the words heavy and ancient in her mind, said before the dawn of countless battles and over the bodies of countless warriors. _Lo there do I see my mother, and my sisters and my brothers._ Loki is warm beneath her, breath quiet and slow, brow curved gentle and peaceful. The shadow of his _Jötunn_ strength hides beneath pale skin, suggested in the curve of his jaw and the sharp line of his cheekbones.

_Lo there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning, lo they do call to me._ The warrior hopes that one day Loki will look upon the frozen colors of his skin without fear and distrust, and she will be able to do the same (because she will not lie and say that the _Jǫtnar_ and their image do not strike a modicum of fear into her heart, but such things are taught and can be unlearned; the princes have shown her this and so much more), because they are all trying, and they will make it someday, if not this life then the next, unto forever and ever, world without end, always and in all ways.

_They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla,_ and Sif draws her hand down his chest, over his heart, the place where all of them are equal in the eyes of the Great _Móðir_. She presses her forehead to his, hearing the faint songs of those still calling to the World Tree, and with Loki she is at peace.

_Where the brave may live forever._

 

_  
_

_"But now it is to meet to make merry and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and now is found."_  
                                                                                                                              - Luke 15: 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _heimr _\- old norse for 'world' or 'realm'.__
> 
> _jǫtnar_ \- old norse plural of _jötunn_.
> 
>  _bræður_ \- old norse for 'brothers'; the plural of _bróðir_.
> 
>  _viking death prayer_ \- featured in the movie _the 13th warrior_ , the prayer is an adaptation of one said by a slave girl during rituals of a viking chieftan funeral, famously documented by ibn fadlan, a 10th century arab traveler.
> 
>  _luke 15: 32_ \- the last line of the parable of the prodgial son, in icelandic at the top and english at the bottom.


End file.
